


people said (that you were virtually dead)

by landfill_lady



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Original Percival Graves, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Credence Barebone Heals, M/M, Omega Credence Barebone, Post-Canon Fix-It, See chapter notes for warnings, and by 'everything', endgame credence/og!pg, i mean 'everything other than gross emotional manipulation by grindledepp', my sweet baby deserves everything, no porn until later chapters i'm sORRY
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-06 16:44:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8760997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landfill_lady/pseuds/landfill_lady
Summary: “Madam President,” Percival grits out after another minute of incredulous staring, alternating between his colleague and the offending papers. “With all due respect, ma’am, I am your Director of Magical Security. Are you really sending me off to investigate half-baked claims of Dark magic in some backwater town in Washington?”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [pin & mount me like a butterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8672662) by [writewrongs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writewrongs/pseuds/writewrongs). 



> inspired by [writewrongs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/writewrongs/pseuds/writewrongs)' excellent pin & mount me like a butterfly. (go read it, it's way better written than this drivel and there is SO MUCH HOT PORN
> 
> (this is a pretty short prequel chapter but there should be another up soon! and there will be a/b/o porn eventually i PROMISE ;w;)

Standing in front of the president of MACUSA’s desk, staring at the papers laid out on it, Percival Graves wishes with a fierce and vicious intensity that he had grabbed an extra cup of coffee this morning.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Seraphina Piquery sighs at him from the other side of the desk, her fingers playing agitatedly with one perfectly-coiffed coil of silver hair.

Percival does as she commands, shifting his gaze back to the neatly-written pages and covert photographs strewn across her desk. Sadly, the second glance does not render them any more palatable. Beneath the sturdy fabric of his cloak, he pinches himself covertly on one thigh - no such luck. This is not some horrible dream.

“Madam President,” he grits out after another minute of incredulous staring, alternating between his colleague and the offending papers. “With all due respect, ma’am, I am your _Director of Magical Security._ Are you really sending me off to investigate half-baked claims of Dark magic in some backwater town in Washington?”

Seraphina steeples her fingers elegantly on her desk and spends a moment resting her head against them, eyes closed, before she replies.

“Percival,” she says finally, with the air of a wizened elder imparting a great secret. “One of us in this room is the President of MACUSA. Now, who might that person be?”

“...You, ma’am.”

“That’s right,” she says, eyes steely. “Auror Graves, you know as well as I do that the practice of Dark magic is a serious concern, whether it be in New York City or ‘some backwater town’, as you so eloquently put it. And that, as President, it is my unique prerogative to send you wherever in America I think your skills are most needed. And additionally…”

“Additionally?” Graves asks, dreading the inevitable response.

President Picquery’s face has adopted the uniquely constipated expression it only contracts when she is forced to display emotional concern for a friend or subordinate. “Your coworkers are worried about you, and so am I. You haven’t taken a vacation day in _years,_ Percival. For Merlin’s sake, I don’t even think you’ve allowed yourself more than three days for a rut since ‘28. A week or two in Redmond might do you some good.”

Percival very much doubts that any amount of time spent in Redmond will do him much good, but the President’s face has adopted the particular no-nonsense expression which means it's a very good idea to leave her be for the conceivable future.

Percival does so, manfully restraining himself from slamming the door behind him. And if he spends the rest of the morning snapping at his aurors a bit more than necessary, well, it's not like _they're_ going to be spending the next two weeks in the rain-sodden ass-end of nowhere; they can damn well deal with it. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s left standing face-to-face with a slender young omega in an apron, whose long black hair is pulled back from his face in a messy plait. Percival only has a fraction of a second to wonder why his face seems so familiar before the omega's expression morphs from shock to fury.
> 
> _“What are you doing here?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (unofficial summary: shit begins to go down.)
> 
> a/n: thank you so much to everyone who read, kudos'd and commented on chapter one! i really appreciate the feedback :)  
> also, this fic will take place in fall because GUYS. EZRA MILLER WITH A PINK LIL' NOSE AND LEAVES STUCK IN HIS HAIR

Percival takes a Portkey to just outside Redmond the next morning, with nothing but his wand, a suitcase full of clothes, and a pocketful of incomprehensible No-Maj currency. When he stumbles out at the other end, he's immoderately proud of himself for not turning and vomiting into the nearest shrubbery. Portkey travel is never pleasant, and considering the amount of time since he's used it last, it's a miracle Percival's managed to keep a hold of his suitcase, let alone the contents of his stomach.

After doing his best to shake off the lingering nausea, Percival takes stock of his surroundings: the Portkey's landed him in a wide, grassy field, empty but for a small No-Maj automobile parked at its edge. The field's been warded heavily with Concealment and No-Maj Repelling Charms, so the car must have been left for him. Percival allows himself a small grimace - he's always hated No-Maj travel, even though like most city Aurors, he knows how to drive. Still, he sees the necessity of it- it will explain his unexpected arrival, plus in a town as small as Redmond, he'll hardly be able to Apparate about in plain daylight.

The car unlocks with a simple  _Alohomora._ It doesn't seem to be magically augmented, unfortunately, and the interior is bare but for a key and a folded map of the town. The map is marked by three red circles over scattered buildings, and a blue one over something marked _Goldfinch Bed & Breakfast_. The red circles are presumably the sites of the "Dark magic"; the blue, Percival supposes, is where he's meant to stay. A small gold dot near the edge of the map marks his current location.

It takes about half an hour before he reaches the building circled in blue. He parks the car out front and goes in, barely remembering to lock it non-magically behind him.

The girl behind the counter lets out an undignified squeak when he pushes the door open. "I'm sorry, sir," she says after a moment, composing herself. "It's only, I wasn't expecting anyone. We don't get much business this time of year. Well, we don't get much business in general, truthfully speaking." Casting a cursory eye over the ragged, second-hand look of the place, Percival can believe it.

"How long would you like to stay?" the girl asks brightly, distracting him from his thoughts.

 The question gives him more pause than it probably should. How long _will_ he be staying in this Merlin-forsaken place?

"A week, perhaps longer," he settles on finally. 

"A week'll be twelve dollars, mister," the girl tells him. Percival pulls out what seems like the correct sum from his wallet, and she hands him back his change and a room key, gaping like a fish; perhaps a bit too much, then.

Percival barely takes the time to dump his suitcase unceremoniously on the small bed upstairs before warding the place six ways from Sunday. Once that's done, he removes a small black velvet bag from the secret compartment of his suitcase and shakes out its contents. The latest prototype Spell-o-Sense is a quaint little thing, fitted together from little brass gears and plates. It resembles a small pigeon more than anything, and doesn't look particularly like it will be of much use, but the inventor's branch of MACUSA has assured him that it's quite efficient at detecting traces of magic. Not much use in a huge city like New York, where spells are as common as bedbugs, but it should be some use in ferreting out unusual activity in Redmond. Percival slips it into his jacket pocket, praying it won't be loud enough to attract too much notice.

The thing whistles and shrieks a bit while he's exiting the bed and breakfast, but that's only to be expected, given the sheer amount of warding spells he's used. It's a bit less vehement at each of the red-circled locations, but still burbles dutifully at each, although the traces of magic are too faint for Percival to pick out a clear path from any of them.

Aside from the three red-circled houses, he can't find a single trace of magic in the whole damned town until almost nightfall, when he runs across a cheery yellow house near the outskirts of town. It seems like an ordinary house from the outside, made unusual (if at all) only by its isolation, but the little device in Percival's jacket is fairly screaming with power.

It's not a malfunction, either - Percival casts a discrete Detection Charm and marvels at the number of charms protecting the house. Some of them are standard - No-Maj Repelling, _Salvio Hexia,_ et cetera - but there are others Percival's never seen before, barbed and intricate. He tries all the counterspells he knows on them, but none of them do any good.

He's just leaning in towards the door-handle, trying to get a closer look at the charmwork around it, when the door swings open of its own accord. Percival barely manages to spring back quickly enough to avoid getting smacked squarely in the face. He’s left standing face-to-face with a slender young omega in an apron, whose long black hair is pulled back from his face in a messy plait.

Percival only has a fraction of a second to wonder why his face seems so familiar before the omega's expression morphs from shock to fury.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses, as Percival’s body is slammed against the side of the house by an invisible force.

Well, shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additional piece of author rambling no one asked for: i didn't give percy an expanding suitcase because i think the charm(s) are probably pretty complicated and difficult to do, or they would be way more common in the wizarding world
> 
> percival is a talented (and wealthy) enough wizard that he probably could make/buy himself one if he really wanted to, but he hasn't because: a. he tends to get frustrated & botch long, involved spells that have nothing to do with dada, even though he's talented enough that he could do them if he just fuckin CONCENTRATED, b. he dislikes spending money on things he considers frivolous, and c. he just travels pretty light, generally speaking.
> 
> also they probably call portkeys something different in america but i'm not creative i'm sorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyy


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much to everyone who's stuck with this fic so far! as an apology re: my lack of updates, have a gratuitous exposition scene, why don't you?
> 
> (i'm not super fond with the writing quality of this chapter, so i'll probably come back & edit it later; but hey the plot needed to move what can i say man)

Wandless magic isn't unheard of among omegas in crisis, especially during heats or when they perceive a strange alpha infringing on their territory. Still, Percival has never seen any this strong. The brunt of the assault should have been absorbed by the protective charms woven into his cufflinks and wristwatch: instead, when Percival looks down, his watch face is cracked, and his cufflinks are both smoldering gently.  _Merlin._

"Percival Graves," he grits out through the invisible force strangling him, on the slim off-chance that the omega is just panicked and hormonal rather than a cold-blooded killer. "I'm an Auror. Badge's in my coat pocket."

This seems to take the man off-guard. Instead of reaching for Percival's badge, though, he grabs his wand from his own pocket. Percival tenses, summoning as much wandless magic as he can into his hands, but the omega just casts a  _Revelio_.

The invisible bonds holding Percival loosen infinitesimally as the man reaches into his coat pocket, allowing him to take a deep, gulping breath. The man stares at his badge for a long moment, brow creased in suspicion.

"How do I know you're not lying to me?" he asks finally, eyes darting from the badge to Percival's face.

Percival considers the question as he sucks air back into his aching lungs. There are all sorts of precautions in place so that no-one can impersonate an Auror; now more than ever. Then again, they've been circumvented before.

"Honestly? You have the badge, and my word for it," he says hoarsely.

Oddly, this display of candor seems to reassure the omega much more than the badge. He waves his hand, and the bonds around Percival disappear, allowing him to slump to the ground.

 "I'm going to put a Suppressant Charm on you, to dampen your magic while you're in the house," the man says. "Not a full block - you'll still be able to cast  _Protego_ or  _Expelliarmus._ Just no offensive spells."

"All right," Percival says grudgingly. He's skilled enough at defensive magic and hand-to-hand combat that a suppressant shouldn't be too much of an issue, if worst comes to worst. Still, he has a powerful aversion to being blocked from  _any_ of his magic, especially after his imprisonment.

" _Supprimio,_ " the omega mutters, sweeping his wand in a wide, curling motion. Percival tries not to grit his teeth as the invasive, dull feeling settles around his shoulders.

"May I come in?" he asks once the effects have settled in, pulling himself up off the ground. The omega nods, biting his lip, and leads him inside. 

As they enter the house, Percival casts a discrete Searching Charm, but doesn't pick up any traces of Dark magic or artifacts. This is only mildly comforting: while _Pertempto_ is usually quite reliable, any wizard skilled enough to cast the kind of curses that have left their insidious residue around town would be more than capable of hiding things from it. 

For whatever it's worth, though, the house doesn't  _look_ like it belongs to a Dark wizard. The hallway the man leads Percival down is patterned in cheerful charmed wallpaper, barely visible between lush watercolors and stuffed-to-bursting hardwood bookshelves. There's a faint scent of baking bread in the air.

It's the kind of place Percival might have wanted for himself one day, back before he'd resigned himself to the solitary, overworked life of an Auror. Unlike his drafty, expensive brownstone back in New York, this place doesn't just feel like a house - it feels like a _home_.

The omega's shoulders tense as he leads Percival further into the house. He's wearing the lemony scent-blocking potion that wizarding omegas tend to favor, but Percival can still detect a faint whiff of fear on him.

"Is your alpha at home?" he asks politely as the man leads him into a small sitting room, trying to set him at ease.

The omega looks expressionlessly at him as he sits down on an overstuffed sofa, pulling up an armchair for Percival with a flick of his hand.

"My alpha and I are... separated," he says finally. 

Percival's face must betray his shock, because the omega's mouth twitches into a faint, self-conscious smile.

"Quite modern, I know. We... weren't suited to each other."

Percival does his best to hide the startled disapproval on his face. He must not succeed particularly well, because the man's lips thin, brows creasing into a delicate frown.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asks finally. 

Percival nods, thankful for the change of topic. "Do you have coffee?"

The man shakes his head apologetically. "I've never been fond of it. Is tea all right?"

Percival nods grudgingly. There's a delicate china teapot on the small table in front of the sofa; the man waves his wand, and two cups and saucers join it, along with a small collection of tea-leaf containers.

" _Aguamenti calidus,"_ he murmurs, and the teapot begins to steam, filling with hot water. "What type of leaf do you prefer?"

"Earl Grey, please." Percival doesn't particularly care for any type of tea, but it's the only one he can think of. 

The omega waves his wand again, muttering an incantation under his breath, and two tea balls lift themselves off the table, open, and fill with leaves. They drop into the teacups with a gentle  _clink,_ and the omega pours water over them. He takes a careful sip from one of the cups and swallows pointedly before setting it down and pushing it across the table.

Percival casts a  _Veneficium revelio_ over the cup, for good measure; there's always the chance that the man has poisoned the tea, and merely slipped himself the antidote somehow. When the spell is negative, he inclines his head to the omega and takes a small sip. It's bitter, but not overwhelmingly so.

"Thank you, Mr...?"

The man blushes slightly. "Oh, of course, I'm sorry. Dawson, Charles Dawson." Something about the name rings false. 

"So, Mr. Dawson, do you live here by yourself?" Percival asks, keeping his tone as innocuous as possible.

The omega looks down at his cup evasively, biting his lip. "Y-yes."

It's the stutter that finally does it, combined with the shift in posture - the pieces click together in Percival's head with alarming clarity.  _Credence Barebone._ No wonder he hadn’t put it together sooner - Percival had only met the boy once, four years ago, and the cringing, awkward creature he remembers from Second Salem Congregation bears almost no resemblance to the tense, poised man in front of him. 

When they’d met, Percival had pegged the boy as a beta, but it’s not unheard of for alphas and omegas to present late when they’ve been grown up malnourished. More concerning than Credence’s unexpected gender, though, is the fact that Percival had been led to believe that he’d been killed in a subway station four years ago, during the capture of Gellert Grindelwald.

Seraphina’d had no reason to fake the boy’s death, and even if she had, Percival’s security clearance is high enough that he would have known about it. Which means that he's a fugitive from justice, as well as the host of a dangerous Obscurus. Percival does his best to keep his panic hidden, but something about his behavior must alert Credence, because the omega straightens up further, body going as tense as a wire.

“It looks as though you’ve figured me out.” His voice is soft, and his posture nonthreatening, but Percival tenses immediately, hand feeling for the reassuring length of his wand. Credence’s eyes barely flicker; he’s either not threatened by Percival, or doing an extremely good job of hiding it.

“Do you have Veritaserum?” he asks abruptly, clenching his hands tightly in his lap. "I'll take it. Whatever you're here about, I haven't committed a crime in the past four years."

Percival takes the small, standard-issue vial out of his breast pocket and tips three drops carefully into Credence's teacup, tensed at any moment for an Obscurus to burst out of the man's chest at him.

Credence takes the cup in one shaking hand and drains it in one gulp, not moving his eyes from Percival's as he does so. He goes rigid almost immediately, face falling slack and eyes glazing over as the potion takes effect.

"Who are you?" Percival asks, keeping his voice as steady as possible. 

"Credence Barebone." The answering voice is flat, mechanical: stripped of all artifice and emotion by the veritaserum.

"What are you doing here in Redmond?"

"I live here, sir."

"Have you been attacking No-Majes in the area, alone or with help?"

"No."

"Do you know who  _is?_ " Percival asks, trying not to let the frustration seep into his voice.

"No."

"How did you survive the battle in New York?" he asks, disappointed by the lack of progress.

Credence's slack brow furrows slightly. "I don't know, sir."

Percival sighs, rubbing his temples as he tries to think of something else to ask. Then he remembers the question he'd asked earlier - the tell-tale stutter it had caused in Credence's voice.

"Who lives here with you, Credence?" Percival asks.

Credence's jaw tenses. "My daughter."

Ah. That explains the defensiveness, then.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Barebone," Percival says stiffly, trying to keep the disappointed bewilderment out of his voice. 

There's a small noise from the door behind them, and he jerks his head sharply around to see a small girl clutching a rag doll.

She glares at Percival suspiciously, gaze darting nervously over to where Credence sits, slack-jawed, on the couch.

"Daddy? Who's this?"

"Just a man who needs to ask me some questions." Credence is plainly trying to keep his expression as soothing as possible, but his veritaserum-toneless voice makes the girl flinch. "Go back upstairs please, dear. And remember to lock the door."

The girl nods, shooting one more mistrustful glance at Percival before disappearing back upstairs.

"Your girl?" Percival asks, keeping his tone light.

"Yes," Credence says, tensing.

“What’s her name?”

“Beatrix.” 

“Bringer of joy,” Percival says, recalling his faint knowledge of No-Maj matronymics. "Good name."

"She's my whole world," Credence says in that horrible vague voice. His eyes shine with sincerity, and Percival allows himself a small smile.

“She's a lovely girl. How old is she?”

At that, Credence tenses up again. “Four,” he says finally, eyes guarded.

It takes Percival a moment to process the cause of his fear. Four, meaning the girl was born in ‘27. Four, meaning…?

“She’s his, isn’t she?” Graves asks, eyes focused on Credence’s face. “Grindelwald’s.”

Credence’s face tells him all he needs to know.

“You can’t tell MACUSA about her,” Credence says intently, his expression pleading. “I mean it, Graves. You can’t tell _anyone_ about her.”

“I won’t,” Graves promises soothingly. He’ll have to, of course - the child of an out-of-control Obscurial and the most powerful Dark wizard of a generation will have to be monitored, maybe even taken in to headquarters. Still, there’s no sense in letting Credence know that.

Across from him, Credence’s face darkens, as though he can guess the direction of Percival’s thoughts.

“I mean it, Mr. Graves. _Under no circumstances may you tell anyone_ anything _about me or my daughter._ ” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> casual reminder that [author has a tumblr](https://landfill-lady.tumblr.com/) and would love it if you spammed her with prompts/headcanons/concrit/friendly conversation;*


End file.
